Today's poem is by Kimberly Johnson
You slow thing,
you with your superfluous yips,
what can you suppose I want from you?
My instinct feeds me; I can tooth-and-claw
any bone to brightness, I lick the sockets
of the air to track my next hunger.
But you who of your urges make ideas
can't guess why I break from your steadfast
and dull pettings for the first ripe bitch I smell,
my magnificent flanks flexing toward her
as you spindle along far behind;
why sniffing her asshole wags the stars;
or why I tongue and tongue a sore
to keep it raw and salty. My next hunger
is me: the rare, incarnate meat of me.
O frail, O small, if you want me
to love you, take off your muzzle
of words and fang this pig's ear of a world,
your mouth, for once, filled only with your teeth.
Copyright © 2009 Kimberly Johnson All rights reserved
from Gulf Coast
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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